Wonderful
by EricaLumiere
Summary: Connor and Murphy have an argument, Murphy is left alone to think.


He couldn't believe it, _no way _was he going to accept this! How dare he – his wonderful Connor – walk out on him?

He didn't mean it, so why did Connor take it so personally? So fucking much so that he would storm out, _slam_ the door shut behind him, without a single word?

Murphy sat on the floor where he'd fallen after Connor landed a punch across his jaw. He was sitting on his bum now, arms supporting him, knees up. But he didn't blame him – he deserved it. But... Why did it hurt Connor so much?

"Fuck!" Murphy screamed, pulling his arms out from under him and throwing his body onto the hard ground, landing on top of his arm with a shrieking pain. Groaning, he stay on the floor, knowing he full-well deserved the pain he was in. Nevertheless, he rolled to his other side delicately. At least if Con were here...

But he wasn't. All because Murphy was a prick and an asshole and didn't know how to shut his bloody mouth.

Taking a couple deep breaths to calm himself from the shock of sudden pain, he cradled one arm in the other on his chest, trying to figure out where Connor went. If he could catch up to him, he could apologize, and then Connor would understand that he meant it, and take him back to the loft and do something about his arm. Oh, how it hurt. Murphy cursed himself, made a mental note to never land on one single body part ever again.

_McGinty's? No, too obvious... No parks... No place full o' people._ Connor didn't like being groups of people when he was upset or angry. The first because he was scared of losig his tough image if someone saw him look sad or tear up; the latter because he worried someone would piss him off and he'd hurt them. _Rocco's? ...No... _Murphy frowned, closing his eyes. His arm was already hurting less; he figured most of pain he felt was in his mind.

A sigh.

Murphy hated fighting with Connor. It was definitely on the top of his list of things to try to not do. But everyone gets fed up with one another at some point or another, and these two would blow up if they couldn't communicate politely with each other. And Murphy wouldn't hesitate to admit – despite his usually happy-go-lucky and carefree attitude, he was usually the one to blow up, and it would more often than not end with him steaming mad, pissed off at himself and his brother, and leaving the loft. But this time, Connor left. He didn't wait for Murphy to stand up and walk out the door. That's how Murphy knew his brother was truly hurt by what he said.

"Fuckity... Fuck fuck," Murphy muttered curses under his breath, sitting up and dragging himself over to the stereo. He smacked random buttons until music came out, then he lay down where he was, listening to the words of an old '80s pop tune.

He almost laughed, in spite of being in pain and Connor-less. He was sure this wasn't the radio, as he had heard a CD drop into place. What in was his brother doing to listening to this shit? (At least, it was shite in Murphy's opinion. Connor found most old pop songs uplifting, but Murphy thought most men from the 1980s who wore make-up or bandannas were begging for a pillow-bite). Chuckling, he kicked the stereo until it turned off, then huddled against the wall, let his worry fade away as he fell asleep, still holding one arm.

* * *

"Hey... Fuckhead," a toe jabbed Murphy in the side, so lightly that it tickled him. 

Startled, his eyes opened and he blinked at his brother. "Hey."

"You always sleep on the floor?"

"Only 'cause we don't have a doghouse."

"You're not my husband."

"Ya know I could be," Murphy replied, relieved as he saw a smile dance across Connor's lips briefly.

Murphy pulled himself back up onto his bum and his brother sat cross-legged in front of him, pulled a cigarette out of the package he always seemed to be carrying, offered one to Murphy, who reached for it with his left arm – his unharmed one – which was unusual, because he took cigarettes and held cigarettes and did anything that involved cigarettes with his right hand. It was just his thing.

"Your arm all right?" Connor took a cigarette himself, lit it, butt-fucked Murphy's. He smiled in spite of himself, remembering the term for his the action. Who would come up with something like butt-fucking cigarettes?

Murphy glanced down at it. It was feeling a little stiff, not too sore anymore. "I, uh... I don't know. I tripped earlier–"

"You tripped?"

"Aye."

"You? You have the world's best balance. Coulda been a ballerina."

"Shut the fuck up or I'm not sayin' another word."

Connor shrugged, inhaled on his cigarette, gazed thoughtfully at his brother through the smoke he exhaled.

"I tripped and landed on my arm. Tha's about it."

His brother nodded. Murphy tried to hide behind his cigarette; taking sudden interest in inhaling and exhaling the smoke.

"If that's what you say happened, I'll believe ya," Connor stuck the smoke between his lips, reached out to his brother's arm, examined it, feeling for broken bones and looking for bruising. "I think it'll be all right."

Murphy nodded. "I thought so, too."

For one instant – one flash of a second – Murphy looked and sounded so innocent and young and sorry that Connor suddenly leaned forward and threw an arm around his neck to pull him closer, kissed his forehead. "I went to the gym," he said as he let Murphy go.

Murphy nodded again, knowing his brother forgave him. They never really were the kind to apologize, or accept an apology, out loud. They communicated in a way that seemed almost telepathic, but really they could just read each other's body language, could read between the lines, know what a tone of voice of a twitch in the face meant. "Only place I didn't think of."

It was Connor's turn to nod, and he leaned back, placing one hand flat on the floor behind him for support.

"I didn't expect you to run out."

"I didn't expect you to be such an- to say something like that," Connor cleared his throat as he changed his sentence.

Murphy shrugged. "Maybe we just need a break... A nice vacation."

"Or some ladies," Connor grinned.

Murphy made a face, something between a grimace and a grin, showing that he was somewhat amused. "Mmm, casual sex..."

The conversation that followed bordered on repulsive, but they laughed and enjoyed themselves, glad to have forgiven and forgotten the earlier incident.

Finally, they decided to go for a drink, and, as they left the loft, Connor helped Murphy put his jacket on, subconsciously checked the pockets of his pants to make sure he had his smokes, and ruffled his brother's hair playfully as he handed him a cigarette.


End file.
